


Happy... What, Exactly?

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-02 23:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You brought me… flowers. Wow. You brought me flowers?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy... What, Exactly?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandomfest for the prompt "anniversary". Thanks to persnickett for the fun chatter that led in part to this story. This one fought me, but I'm letting it out to fly free regardless. ;)
> 
> * * *

"God damnit," Matt mutters under his breath. He leans forward, shoulders hunched and eyes flicking intently at the action on the screen. He eases up on a button and his avatar creeps slowly forward, keeping one shoulder at the tunnel wall and an eye out for his nemesis, some slack-jawed cretin named yomama – bastard probably still lives in his mother's basement getting fat on Cheetos and jesus, if he finds out yomama is actually Warlock he's going to be so pissed – who's got double his firepower and a motherfucking troll on his side.

He's got Little Matt stealthily easing around a blind corner when he hears John cough. 

Matt flicks his gaze to the clock in the corner of the screen, raises an eyebrow at the time. He should have had dinner started an hour ago… and working on the coding that was due in, oh, four days maybe should have been a priority as well. He makes a mental note to get to both of those things right after he destroys yomama _and_ his damn shit-eating troll.

When John coughs again, Matt realizes that perhaps he's supposed to acknowledge the guy's presence. Even though he's got a troll to kill. "Hey," he mumbles.

"Hey yourself," John says. "Happy anniversary, kid."

Matt frowns, not sure he's heard right. "Happy--?" he starts, risking a glance away from the TV screen. He can't get out the rest of the sentence, though, because he's transfixed by the sight of John McClane nearly engulfed by a bouquet of overly-large, brightly coloured blooms. On some level he's aware that his mouth has dropped open and that Little Matt is emitting a series of painful death squeals from the screen, but all of that pales in comparison to this truly unprecedented sight. He lets the controller drop from his fingers, swipes a hand through his unkempt hair.

"You brought me… flowers. Wow. You brought me flowers?"

John shrugs out of his jacket, drapes it over the arm of the sofa. "Dudes like flowers, right?"

Matt makes a noise that he hopes sounds like something in the general realm of the affirmative. "Yeah! Yes!" he says enthusiastically. And then, because John is giving him that narrowed-eye furrowed-brow look that indicates that maybe he's figured out that while some dudes might be very appreciative of flowers, _his_ dude may have an issue with them, he plasters on a bright smile. "You bought me flowers!"

"You keep sayin' that, kid. You wanna take 'em or are you just gonna leave me standing here like a doofus?"

"Doofus? You are absolutely not a doofus, John," Matt says as he rises. "In fact, no one even says doofus anymore. There was a tribunal, then a whole voting process online, it was a super big deal. 'Doofus' has been officially retired, along with 'rad' and 'groovy'."

He reaches for the flowers just as John rolls his eyes and tugs him forward, and Matt does his best to hold the blooms away from his body while they kiss. Hopefully it looks like he just doesn't want to crush them, and when they pull apart he hopes John will take his watery eyes for a side-effect of playing video games for six hours. Not that there's been a precedent set for that or anything.

"Wow. Flowers," he says again when they part. He resists the urge to wipe his nose on his sleeve. "You know what I should do? I should put these down and find out how to take care of them properly. They probably need growth vitamins and… you know what, let me just grab my laptop—"

"Matt."

"I could just google it, it'll take like ten minutes—"

"Jesus, kid," John says. "You wanna know how to take care of cut flowers?"

It seems like a trick question. Knowing McClane, it IS a trick question. Matt narrows his eyes. "Yeah?" he says hesitantly.

"Put 'em in water," John says. "The End."

"Astounding," Matt says. "The detail, the complexity in those directions. I don't know if I'll be able to remember all of that. You know, you should write a book, share all your pithy flower-care insights with the horticultural neophytes." He heads toward the kitchen, holding the blooms awkwardly out from his chest, John trailing in his wake while he attempts not to sniffle. He glances over his shoulder. "I should put these in a vase. Do we even have a vase?"

"Bottom left cupboard, top shelf," John directs.

"Right," Matt says. He busies himself with running the water and studiously ignoring the tickle in his throat, has slapped the flowers into the vase and tucked them into the corner of the kitchen counter – as far away from himself as possible without making it too obvious – when John comes up behind him and wraps him in his arms, tucks his chin on Matt's shoulder.

"Got ya something else, too," John says. 

Matt frowns, still trying to puzzle out the reason for this sudden largess. Happy what? He shakes his head. "You… did?"

John steps back to let him move, holds out the envelope with a flourish.

For one brief shining moment Matt thinks that John's actually been listening when he's been going on about New York Comic Con, maybe even picked him up the VIP package. He tears into the envelope, looks down at the tickets… and then looks back up at John quizzically. "Tickets to the RV show?"

John nods, clearly pleased with himself. "It's this weekend. Figure we can check it out, maybe pick up a little something while we're there."

"By a little something is there any way that you possibly mean a hotdog from one of the vendors?"

"I'm talkin' about an RV, Matt."

"Right. A… recreational vehicle." Matt swallows uneasily. "A Winnebago."

"Yeah!" John says. He holds up a hand. "Nothing crazy, just something small, maybe a little camper type. I got all that vacation time stored up, and you're not on any kind of schedule. In the spring we can hit the open road, visit some national monuments."

"We already did that," Matt says. "Oh wait. You mean without a hit squad of international thieves and assassins dogging our every move."

"Hopefully," John says. 

"When you put it like that," Matt says dryly, "how can I resist?"

By the time they go to bed the flowers have somehow ended up on the bedside table. Matt spends their lovemaking surreptitiously wiping his nose on the pillowcase and hoping that John will think his open-mouthed raspy breathing is a sign that he's really turned on and not that he's about to dive for his inhaler.

* * *

"So let me get this straight," Warlock says. "You don't know what anniversary you're supposedly celebrating?"

Matt leans back in his chair, shakes his head. "Dude, I'm telling you, I have no fucking clue! We moved in together right after I got out of the hospital, so that was like… mid-July. We didn't get together until October. The 16th, to be exact. There is literally nothing significant in September."

"Maybe he's one of those badasses with the goopy love-puppy interior," Warlock says before making a face at the thought. He leans out of the webcam frame before popping back up with a Frito in hand. He stuffs it in his mouth before waving a hand. "So he's celebrating the first time you said _I love you_ or some shit like that."

John is exactly like those badasses with the goopy interior, but Matt's not about to say that out loud. Instead he says, "That was also October 16th. I'm telling you, I'm stumped."

The Warlock raises a brow. "You could ask him."

"Right," Matt huffs out. "Thanks for the flowers and the plans to go on a big romantic getaway—"

"Romantic?" Warlocks snorts.

"It's romantic to him!" Matt snipes. "Yeah, thanks for all that, John. It's awesome, really thoughtful. By the way, what the hell are we celebrating? Yeah, that'll go over real well."

"So you nearly aspirated to death on ragweed and you're going to be tooling around the country in a Winnie and you don't even know why."

Matt sighs. "Looks like it," he says.

* * *

When John suggested dinner, Matt thought he meant sloppy joe's at McGinty's.

"This… really wasn't necessary," Matt says. He adjusts his tie for the seventh time, manages a wan smile at the waiter who stops by – again – to refill his water glass before picking up his fork and poking at the artfully arranged meal in front of him. He can't remember exactly what he ordered, but he's pretty sure it included some kind of meat. Not that he can identify anything on his plate except for the asparagus.

"Wanted to do something nice for ya, Matty," John says.

Matt spears a piece of asparagus, twirls it on his fork. He's spent the entire week carefully avoiding being closer than a dozen feet to the damn flowers, and he's still had to use his inhaler half a dozen times. He's had to plaster a smile on his face so many times that he's starting to feel like one of those creepy funhouse clowns. At some point tomorrow he's apparently going to be buying a Winnebago. He can only surmise that this will soon be followed by the purchase of a Hawaiian shirt and some kind of floppy hat. And possibly sandals to be worn with knee socks. He's basically resigned himself to the fact that he's going to be driving around the country in this ensemble for weeks on end. And fine, he'll do it – because it will make John happy. God knows he's dragged John into enough computer shops and second hand stores. But…

"That's… yeah, it's nice that you…" Matt makes a sudden decision. The Warlock was right – he'd really, really like to know why. He puts down his fork and just decides to come out with it. "Why, exactly?"

John pauses with a forkful of food halfway to his mouth, frowns at him. "For our anniversary."

"Which would be..?" Matt prompts.

"Jesus, kid. September 19th!"

Matt huffs out a breath. "I… I'm sorry, John. I don't get it. What happened on—"

When John's eyes suddenly go wide, Matt knows. He doesn't have the genius brain thing going on for nothing.

"You've got to be kidding me."

John holds out a hand. "Kid—"

Matt leans forward. "Are you telling me," he hisses, "that you bought me flowers and took me out to dinner to celebrate the wedding anniversary of you and your _ex-wife_?" 

John gives him a sickly smile. "Sorry?"

"You. Are an idiot."

"You know what, kid? You're right. I'm a total—"

"I'm allergic to flowers, John!" Matt says. "Did you maybe notice that? Or did you think that I normally walk around with red puffy eyes and a runny nose?"

"Well," John says, waving a hand in the general direction of his nose, "sometimes when you're up all night working on your computer doodads—"

Matt splutters, cutting him off. "And I'll tell you right now, there is no fucking way my ass is going anywhere near a Winnebago unless it's wired to shit!"

"Wired to—"

"And I'm not buying a stupid floppy hat!" Matt leans back in his chair, crosses his arms at his chest. He's suddenly aware that a lot of the background ambient noise has dwindled away to nothing, glances up to see that the diners around them have all paused in their meals to watch the little display. So maybe his voice got a little louder than he intended. 

"Who said you have to buy a hat?" John waves a hand in the air when Matt glares at him. "Never mind, I don't want to know," he says. "Listen. Kid. I'm sorry. I'm an ass—"

"You really are," Matt says. He slumps a little further in the chair, notices a woman staring unabashedly at him over her plateful of twigs and grass. "I'm sorry," he says, "are you catching all this? We can speak a little louder if you'd like. Fill you in on the background details." When the woman pales and turns back to her meal, Matt snorts. "That's a no, then?"

When John stands, Matt first thinks that he's going to walk out. Or maybe smack him in the head for being a smartass. Instead, John smoothes a hand down the front of his suit jacket, clears his throat. "That's a good idea," he says.

"Oh God."

"Can I have your attention, please?" John says loudly. 

"McClane. Seriously. Sit down."

John gives him a smile before turning his attention to the restaurant. "Sorry to interrupt your meals, everyone. Some of you might have caught the little… ruckus going on at our table. Thing is, I did something stupid. If you knew me you'd know that's not a surprise. I'm a doofus. My partner here tells me that word's been retired but I still think it fits," he says, indicating Matt with a sweep of his hand.

Matt doesn't have to look up from his asparagus to know that all eyes in the room are now on him. He considers standing, maybe giving a little sarcastic wave. In the end he just sits up a little straighter in his chair, cocks a brow at John. 

"See," John says, gazing around the room, "I used to be married to a lovely woman. It didn't work out. And I figured fine, okay, I'm meant to be alone. Then a year ago I met this man. And for some reason he decided to take a chance on an old cop with a lousy attitude and very little tolerance for bullshit. I've got bad knees and I'm set in my ways, I work too much and apparently I get my dates mixed up, but he puts up with all of it. I got lucky when I fell in love with him and he decided to love me back. I got lucky, and I remember that every single day." John smiles down at him before returning his attention to the room. "Now I'll try not to do anything else stupid and you fine people can go back to your meals. Thank you for your attention."

Matt waits until John has retaken his seat before leaning forward and raising a brow. "Smooth, McClane."

"I meant every word."

"I know," Matt says. He sighs, picks up his fork and pokes again his meal before looking up at John through his bangs. "I'm still kind of mad at you."

"I know. I just wanted to do something nice for ya, kid. I'm sorry I fucked it up so badly," John says. "I really do love you, Matty."

"I love you, too," Matt says. 

He shakes his head. If there was ever a person for whom the adage 'it's the thought that counts' fits perfectly, it's John McClane. He learned that back when John accidentally wiped half his hard drive while trying to install an app because "this website told me it'd speed everything up for ya, kid". He learned that back when John rearranged his collectibles and ended up melting his limited edition Wolverine. 

Matt puts down his fork, waves his hand in the air. "And you can start making up for this whole fiasco by taking me out of here and getting me some decent food. Fries, a burger, is that too much to ask? I'm not even sure what this is on my plate, some kind of gruel? And hey, if this whole dinner was for me then shouldn't I get to pick the restaurant? Isn't that some kind of anniversary rule?"

"There's rules now?" John asks as he raises his arm for the bill.

"There's oughta be!" Matt says. "No floppy hats is definitely a rule. Oh, and no socks with sandals! Another rule. There is no negotiation with this one. I might be able to do a work-around with the hat, but the sandals and socks thing is a no go."

"What is your fascination with the floppy hat?"

Matt would tell him that he's sort of weirdly looking forward to getting that stupid floppy hat. To being out on the road with John McClane for a few weeks. To seeing the stress lines on John's brow smooth out with no work, no worries, no forms to fill out in triplicate, no bad guys to catch. He's come to the startling conclusion that the whole Winnebago thing won't be so bad after all. 

But if he tells him that, John will feel that he doesn't still have to make up for the RV adventure aspect of this little anniversary mishap, and he can't have that. He has all kinds of interesting plans on how John can make amends for that one.

One of them might involve handcuffs.


End file.
